


seeds and stems (can't stop me from loving you)

by ptrchrl



Category: SB19 (Band)
Genre: Author Is Sleep Deprived, Best Friends, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Hanahaki Disease, M/M, Not Beta Read
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-18 01:47:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28984356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ptrchrl/pseuds/ptrchrl
Summary: And with how things were going, he just wanted to be Les for the rest of his remaining life as flowers begin to populate his lungs.
Relationships: Stellvester "Stell" Ajero/John Paulo Nase | Sejun
Comments: 9
Kudos: 28





	seeds and stems (can't stop me from loving you)

**Author's Note:**

> hi! this is a whole unedited 3.8K fic so idk how coherent this would be by the end. please know i spent the first hours of day to finish this. enjoy?

**_Stage 1: Seeds_ **

Stell was dying out of love.

Maybe the seeds of his untold feelings were still budding, just a bit slower so he can relish the moments he has left. He can already imagine his lungs fill with thorns and stems, slithering from his bronchioles to his esophagus. They creep like vines, slowly and unseemingly, but he knows it's there. And if he wasn't already in terms with it, he would've cried and wept his inevitable death.

But that wasn't what he needed right now. Right now he was in his best friend's bedroom to listen to him play his newly composed song, looking the most relaxed and peaceful.

Long fingers stroked the guitar, producing a beautiful soft melody. He swept his hair behind his ear as he started out the chorus. Stell couldn't focus on the words and its meaning when the angelic voice he always hears during late night calls was reverberating through the small space.

The lights were dim. Stell closed his eyes. Thinking of his brain as a recording machine, he etched Paulo's voice into his memory forever.

He's heard of the disease before. Hanahaki. Flowers growing in your lungs. He didn't believe it was true. But then it was, and it meant that there was a chance that what he felt wasn't returned. Confessing and ruining their relationship seemed worse than actually dying, so he's resigned to the growing numbness in his chest.

"Les? Are you even listening?"

Stell hummed his affirmation. He felt Paulo nudge his leg and with a light grumble, he scooched to the side. They lay down on the bed beside each other quietly, and when Stell opened his eyes he could see the faint light of the glow-in-the-dark stickers on Paulo's ceiling.

Paulo raised his guitar pick. "A plectrum for your thoughts?"

That had Stell smiling. Paulo, the darling he is, had always been extraordinary. It was in the way he always saw the need to be creative in the littlest ways. He called 'a penny for your thoughts' too mainstream, and insisted they used 'a plectrum for your thoughts' instead, which was more personal and had more meaning behind it. 

The guitar pick Paulo was holding was from the collection of Green Day picks Stell got for his birthday years ago. It had limited stocks, but the way Paulo's face lit up when he opened his present was enough payment for the perils he had to go through to acquire it.

It's a surprise he didn't notice he was falling in love until he felt ill and… well.

Stell took the plectrum and spun it between his fingers, mesmerized with how the low light bounced off its shiny surface. "Just thinking about the future."

"What about the future?"

A silence ensued. It was a normal occurrence between them. Stell liked to think they were so in sync with each other that one only needed to breathe to be understood. But these were times when he wished Paulo would really know what goes on in his mind, this broken machine of his that was full of recordings of Paulo's body and voice.

"Well… in the off-chance that I won't be with you in the future, I just want you to know you're the most important person I have in my life," Stell said as earnestly and honestly as he can. He hoped Paulo caught on.

"What do you mean won't be with me? Les, we've been together for the longest time. I don't think I'll be able to function without you."

"But you can."

Paulo paused, crinkling his nose. "Yeah, you're right." He sat up and faced Stell determinedly. "Let me reiterate then. I can't function well without you."

"Oh please," Stell snorted, "you already make a fool out of yourself even without my help."

"How dare you?" Paulo gasped in faux offense, the smirk on his lips betraying him. "I'm just here so you, sir, won't cause any problems."

Stell grabbed a pillow and threw it on Paulo's face. The man merely laughed at the action, all sweet and carefree in a way Stell wished he was too. He recorded it in his brain again, for the sake of replaying it when the night is full and he's unable to sleep.

"But seriously though," Paulo began, his laughing fit finished, "I don't think I'll last long without you with me."

The way Stell's heart hammered against his chest didn't help his current situation, but it was times like this that he relished the feeling. He knew he was grinning like an idiot when Paulo grinned back at him. He clasped the hand holding Paulo's plectrum over his chest.

"See, you're so cheesy. No wonder people go around and fall in love with you."

"You're just jealous that more people like me, Les," Paulo teased, taking his guitar from the floor again and strumming a little tune.

Stell hummed in affirmation, but it really wasn't that. He just wanted one person to like him, just wanted to be Paulo's Les. And with how things were going, he just wanted to be Les for the rest of his remaining life as flowers begin to populate his lungs.

***

**_Stage 2: Flowers_ **

_ Do people retain their memories after death? _

Les barely made it to the toilet before he was hit by another coughing fit. His hands, bloodied with petals and leaves, gripped the sides of the toilet bowl as his chest constricted and he felt,  _ really felt _ , thorns pressing against the interior of his lungs.

He was sure he was going to die, but he couldn't. Not until tomorrow, because Paulo needed him at the studio, and damn it all if he wasn't there for his best friend when he needed him most.

Something snagged in the back of his throat, scratching the walls of his esophagus. He coughed and coughed until it fell out of his mouth, in which he could only stare as he tried to catch his breath.

A whole sunflower. A whole sunflower came from his mouth. The dainty yellow color was tainted with his own blood, and he vaguely wondered if he's bleeding internally.

Oh God. Was he ready to die yet? Les thought he had come into terms with it before. But confronted with the dilemma right in front of him, fear crawled up his spine and shook him through his core.

The doctor said he still has three months. It was either that or surgery, but Les couldn't bring himself to push through with it if it meant he'd forget about the one person who made it easier for him to breathe and live.

How ironic was it for the universe to make Paulo the reason why he loses his breath in so many different ways.

Languidly, Les let himself fall lax on the linoleum floor of his bathroom, relaxing to the cold that touched his fevered skin. He tilted his cheek to the floor.

Les wished memories could be taken to heaven. Or maybe hell, he doesn't know. Just the afterlife, in general. Because if he couldn't, it would've been a waste of recording everything that was Paulo. He was already risking a lot by not taking the surgery, he didn't want to risk more.

No one knew about it. And no one needed to know, not until the last second. Les would relish every moment he still has before he had to go. He's never thought of himself as a martyr, but here he was, disheveled and covered in his own blood, staring at the ceiling of his bathroom and wishing he didn't have to experience hell on earth.

It took him an hour, but he pushed himself up and rid himself of his clothes, stepping into the shower.

Yes, Les assured himself under the rush of cold water, memories do make it to the afterlife.

***

**_Stage 3: Stems_ **

"You seem out of breath recently."

Paulo's concerned face loomed over Les as he took a swig from his water bottle. They've just finished recording Paulo's new song, and while Les enjoyed singing it, he wasn't able to hit the notes he was supposed to.

"Just a cold, I think," Stell dismissed.

Paulo continued to stare at him. He tried his best not to blush. 

"No, I don't think that's it. You've been losing weight too."

Les shrugged. He was out of excuses. He was just plain tired. As much as he enjoyed Paulo's company, he very much wanted to crawl under the covers of his cozy bed and sleep the day away.

"You know what," Paulo clasped Les' shoulder, which hurt more than it should, "I'm taking you out to dinner tonight."

"There's really no need to—"

"Nope. Nu-uh. I insist," Paulo cut him off. Another thing about Les' bestfriend was when he has set out to do something, he will make sure it happens. As admirable as it was, Les didn't want to do anything right now. At all.

"No, listen. I said it's alright. I think I just need to go home and rest," Les responded, looking up at Paulo. The man, who Les would argue was a baby in a twenty-six-year-old man's body, pouted at him.

"Don't you want to spend time with me?"

_ Oh, if only you knew. _

"I do. I'm just tired."

Paulo looked far behind Les with his eyebrows pressed together, deep in thought. He looked adorable everytime he did that. Les took a mental picture.

Reaching up, Les used his thumb and index finger to smoothen Paulo's eyebrows out. His best friend blinked in surprise and met his gaze. They stared at each other for a bit before they burst out laughing.

"You need to stop doing that, my muscles would be misplaced," Paulo complained half-heartedly, a lopsided grin on his lips.

"It doesn't suit you. I was just helping you look better so all the ladies would come running at you when they see you."

"Ass."

Les was tired, but making Paulo smile was something that he didn't mind exhausting himself with.

Paulo managed to think up a compromise. Movie night at his place then.

There Les was, sitting on the couch with a bunch of pillows and blankets and in an oversized sweater because Paulo was considerate like that. He can be such a mother hen at times, especially now. If Les craned his neck over the back of the couch he can see his best friend in the kitchen.

Soup wasn't Paulo's expertise, but that didn't stop him from making one. Les tried to convince him out of it, but as all the times he did before, it didn't work. He looked cute trying to make it on his own anyway. It was well known by a lot of people that Les was the better cook out of the two of them, so it was sweet of him to be doing this today. 

As he waited, Les let himself daydream. 

In his head, they were married. He had contracted a cold and had to skip work, and there Paulo was, being a good husband in a faded green apron and manbun, cooking away a dish he didn't know much about. They'd enjoy it over a movie and talk for a bit afterwards. Paulo would insist on carrying him to the bedroom, claiming that he shouldn't exhaust himself any more. Then they'd cuddle and talk some more, falling asleep in each other's arms. It was far-fetched, Les knew. But if he was to die soon, he could think up all the images he wanted with no regrets.

Leaning back on the couch, Les immediately got back up again as a sharp pain travelled from his neck down his spine.

He felt down the back of his head with his hand, fingers going down his hair to the back of his neck and there. There was something sticking out of his skin, upward and sharp. Les swallowed as he tried to figure out what it was.

“Done! Took longer than when you do it, but at least it's finished," Paulo announced, getting back in the living room with two steaming bowls of whatever concoction he had come up with.

Les withdrew his hand and put it back within the blankets, looking up at Paulo.

"Well, what are you waiting for? Time to eat!"

"Feed me."

Paulo snorted. "Really?"

Les nodded determinedly. Chuckling, Paulo seated himself beside Stell and put one of the bowls down on the table. He took a spoonful and blew gently, angling his body to Les.

"Alright. Say 'ahhh.'"

"What? I'm not saying that."

"Oh come on! You're the one who wanted me to feed you. Please?" Paulo pulled on his pout. He knew well of its power and wielded it so that Les frequently found himself in situations he'd rather not be in.

“Ahhh.”

Paulo grinned, feeding Les the soup. It was salty, very much so, but there was also something sour and a bit sweet. It was a confusing blend of flavors yet somehow, it still worked. Les had a mind to ask Paulo what was in it when the man took a spoonful for himself using the same spoon he used to feed him.

“Pau!”

“What?” He hummed, face contorting as he tasted his own soup.

“You should’ve used another spoon! You said it yourself that I’m sick.”

Paulo merely shrugged, seemingly decided that the soup was okay.  _ “Ayaw mo nun?  _ We’ll be sick together! That way, I can skip meeting up with my producer for a few days.” He grinned.

“Sira.”

But Les couldn’t deny how sweet the motion was. It made his stomach flutter, and he had to wonder if butterflies had grown in him too. Maybe that was where the expression ‘butterflies in your stomach’ came from. Soon, he would know for sure.

He let himself enjoy Paulo’s doting and warmth, choosing to forget about reality for a moment. And when he found himself waking up in Paulo’s bed the next morning with the smell of breakfast, he decided that maybe, he could be selfish for as long as the flowers let him.

***

A couple of days passed, and it became apparent what the thing at the back of his neck was.

It had manifested on Les’ chest, his back, and his arms. Green poking out of his skin, barely painful, but still there. A reminder that what he had now was temporary, that death loomed just around the corner.

Resolving to wear jackets to cover it up, Les still went to Paulo’s recording sessions and gigs. The doctor could wait until the last second, he was determined on seeing through his part in Paulo’s stellar dream to become a world-known artist, and if he would die in the process, he really didn’t mind.

So when they went out of the studio to buy lunch, Stell pulled at his sleeves in an effort to hide the stalks rising from his skin.

“A plectrum for your thoughts?” Paulo asked, breaking the relative silence as they walked down the sidewalk to the convenience store nearby.

"You don't have one with you."

Paulo elbowed him lightly. Les chuckled.

“Well, I was just thinking about how it would be like when you finally achieve your dream.” Les muffled a cough with his fist.

"That’s something nice to think of.”

“Yeah.” Les hummed. “I imagine you’d have concerts in big coliseums. Fly around the world, eat lunch in Korea, perform in Hongkong a couple hours later.”

“I’d have a private jet by then. I could have you flying around with me.” Paulo smiled.

Some twisted part of Les’s brain went ‘yes, you could take my ashes with you wherever you go.’ It didn’t sit well with him that he conjured that thought up, especially with how weird a setup like that would be. He shivered, burying his hands into his pockets.

“Yeah, you could.”

The prospect of not being there when Paulo reached the peak of his career made thorns poke inside his chest. He supposed that with love came pain, as is the lesson of the fairytale books he had read about his condition. It never bothered him before how he would suddenly stop living in a world with Paulo in it, but now, it troubled him so. There were probably not enough memories that can keep Paulo’s essence with him. With a being as vivacious and lovely as he, would there ever be enough?

Les decided then that he would have himself cremated and scattered somewhere. At least then, maybe his memories of Paulo can be one with the universe which granted him such cruel fate.

***

**_Stage 4: Bloom_ **

It happened one random night in the third month since he knew he had it.

Les didn’t know what happened to insignate it, but the pain ripped through his skin and all over his body, clawing at his insides until he bled. He subconsciously knew that he was bleeding. Blood raged through his veins, angry and loud in his ears.

His brain knew that the bed was soft underneath him, but his skin didn’t respond. It was as if he had lost his senses, drowning in excruciating pain. This must be what it felt like to be skinned alive, to be ripped apart so blatantly raw that his eyes burned from the tears he shed.

Grey sheets marred with red blood. His bloodshot eyes stared at the ceiling of his bedroom, imagining the stick-on stars in Paulo’s bedroom. His mouth gasped for breath as his esophagus was overwhelmed with stems and flowers. 

That was how the Hanahaki strike: a numbness at the start until it developed into a painful living nightmare. 

Les could understand now why people opted to get surgery or die by their own terms. But no, he was a martyr, a warrior in a fight he was bound to lose. He wasn’t as brave as one though. He embodied a coward more than a warrior, since it could have all been avoided if he had just told Paulo how he felt and gotten over it with surgery. 

Not that a debate on whether he was brave or not was going to help him live right now. He knew it happened fast, but he didn’t imagine it would be this fast, with stems sticking out of his skin accelerating in growth and leaves suddenly unfurling like dawn.

A sunflower unfolded on his shoulder, ripping through sickly white skin, petals adorned with red. And still he couldn’t scream at the pain from the lack of oxygen passing into his lungs. It was a wonder how his lungs still held out with numerous punctured holes.

“Les?”

Maybe it was a hallucination or maybe it was a memory, but Les swore he heard Paulo.

“Le – fuck, Les!”

A hazard shuffling. His eyes didn’t even squint when the room suddenly filled light.

“Can you hear me? Les!”

Perhaps his eyes couldn’t register anything properly with the tears blurring his sight. Either way, it became apparent that it wasn’t a hallucination nor a memory: Paulo was really in his room.

“Fuck, what do I – I’ll call an ambulance!”

The sound of Paulo’s frustration reminded Les of the way he would run his fingers through his hair whenever something’s wrong. It never failed to make him smile, but tonight was an exception.

“What’s happening? I… I don’t know what to do…”

Les wanted to console him. It wasn’t often that Paulo didn’t know what to do, and in these moments he knew it wasn’t far off that the man would start overthinking. 

And then the sniffles reached Les’ ears.

_ Don’t cry,  _ Les wanted to say. His lips moved, but he couldn’t let his voice out.  _ I don’t blame you for anything. _

Will anyone tell Paulo how Les died out of love? Maybe. He just hoped that the love of his life wouldn’t take it hard upon himself. Les had been selfish to keep it all under wraps. He wanted to finish what he had to do, live the remainder of his days alone, and maybe even bid Paulo goodbye. But life never let things go into plan, so Les resolved to himself that he would make the next lifetime they meet worth it.

“Les, please hold on, please…”

But with how his chest heaved for breath, Les knew he couldn’t. He supposed it would be the one request of Paulo he couldn’t fulfill. He was tired, beaten, and ready to go, all in the name of a love he’d rather keep than forget.

When said that way, it seemed poetic. With the last of his energy, Stell mouthed the words he had always wanted to say before his vision faded to black.

_ A plectrum for your thoughts? _

_ I love you, Paulo. _

***

**_The Aftermath_ **

Sunflowers bloomed, strangely in the middle of a field of tombstones and grass. It took everyone’s attention as they passed by, visiting the graves of their loved ones.

_ Such pretty sunflowers. I wonder where it came from. _

On most days you’d see a silhouette standing in front of it. Sometimes on days where the sun shone bright that his skin glowed red from its heat, and other days when it rained hard until he was soaked through the bone. Yet he was there, unfailingly, loyally visiting that patch of sunflowers.

There really must be something that kept them alive for so long. The climate wasn’t exactly friendly for flowers such as these. It must be the element of which it was produced that kept it going, stalks standing tall and dainty yellow color shining through.

Sometimes you’d hear the man cry so hard as he mutter apologies like a prayer. Sometimes you’d hear him sing melodies, agony seeping through his voice and cracking before he could even finish. He never seemed to be able to reach the highest notes even as he tried.

Always though, you’d see him with a guitar pick. He would twirl it between his fingers and talk animatedly with the flowers, as if he was talking to a person. The keeper said the man might have been insane, but he paid handsomely to keep the flowers well-groomed so it wasn’t their role to judge. They let him stay for as long as he liked, but he’d never really stay longer than an hour. He would bury the pick in the middle of the patch and wave goodbye, gone until he would come back several days later.

If you look closely though, you’d find an engraving next to the stalks of sunflowers.

_ Stellvester Quitales Ajero. Radiant as the sunflowers that took him away by his lungs. _

And no one knew what to make of it.

**Author's Note:**

> please tell me if you liked it! comments and kudos are appreciated. :3


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